


Looking For A Reason

by ister



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Betaed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 07:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister
Summary: Prompt: Hey! You seemed enthusiastic about people sending you Napollya prompts so maybe you will consider that one too: The first time Illya sees Napoleon cry. And to make it worse he is the reason for it. Napoleon has a horrible day. By the evening he feels the ridiculous need to cry, he's so done, tired and sad. And then Illya (completely unware) and mad at Solo about something, says something quite mean to him, and to his mortification Napoleon just starts crying. Illya comforts him in the end.The price of optimism is all too often disappointment, and he should have known better than to let himself hope: good things simply don’t happen to him or anyone around him.





	Looking For A Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by anonymous

Napoleon's day couldn't have gotten off to a worse start. His alarm clock had decided to go on strike, so it was only luck that he woke up when he did. Oversleeping produces its own strange sort of adrenaline, and in the space of a second he’s thrown off the covers and sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly wide awake. There’s not nearly enough time for his normal morning routine, but he can maybe manage the bare essentials if he hurries. 

In another second he’s out of bed and bolting to the bathroom, but in his haste he lands a solid kick to the wooden foot of his mother’s old futon and can almost hear his toes crunch against it. He’s always known the damn thing was cursed. He vows to get rid of it at the first opportunity, but in the meantime he just glares at it through watering eyes and wills it to combust.

His father would’ve shaken his head at him for the thought, and for a moment his Irish superstition gets the better of him and he fears _he’ll_ go up in flames instead. Luckily - _naturally_ \- nothing happens, and he makes it to the bathroom in one piece despite the sick throbbing in his toes. 

A quick look in the mirror reveals that he desperately needs to shave, and a quick look at his wristwatch reminds him that he doesn’t have time to. He curses under his breath before snatching up his toothbrush and then, when that’s done, his comb. Taming his hair turns out to be a task nothing short of a nightmare because his curls have apparently elected to gang up on him and resist any kind of order; all he manages to do is make them fluffier, and a dunk under the faucet will only hold them down for so long.

The worst part of it is that he’s to blame for his untidy self, because he hasn’t set foot out of his apartment since Friday evening, when he had found a young sparrow lying on the ground in front of the building and hurried it inside. A quick supply run, and that’s all the city of London had seen from Napoleon Solo for the rest of the weekend.

He’d even cancelled the dinner with Illya, which shouldn’t have been as easy as it was, considering how much he truly enjoyed spending time with him. But after Illya had left his apartment in an unnecessary rush on Friday, cancelling on him was a simple matter of making a phone call. Evidently Illya preferred lying and flight to his honest company anyway, so really, no harm was done. 

Napoleon shakes his head and raises his eyebrows at his reflection. There’s nothing to be done about this situation short of a long talk with Illya, but his partner is nothing if not a master of avoidance and deflection. 

As he hobbles out of the bathroom, he briefly contemplates just calling in sick because he looks awful, he feels awful, and in his haste to get ready he’s probably broken at least one of his toes. Even for him that’d be a little bit over the top, though, because all he has to do today is paperwork, so he sighs and limps back into his bedroom to get dressed.

Putting on his usual three-piece suit seems like too much of a time-consuming hassle, so he goes for a red cashmere sweater and a simple pair of pants instead. He still needs a few minutes to check on his little patient, after all. 

There’d always been a good chance that the little guy wouldn’t make it, he knows as much, but he’s positive that his health is increasing. He had seemed to be doing much better yesterday. 

But the price of optimism is all too often disappointment, and he should have known better than to let himself hope: good things simply don’t happen to him or anyone around him. He enters his kitchen and when he’s greeted with silence instead of the quiet chirps he’s come to love, he knows his little patient is dead. A look into the box confirms it. The sparrow is lying on its side in the little nest of blankets, legs tucked up, chest still. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say, and he lets his head hang down between his shoulders. Sleeping late and stubbing toes he can handle, but death in his kitchen is just too much.

Calling in sick seems like a much better idea suddenly and he seriously contemplates it, but once again decides against it because he probably needs the distraction. He needs to get out of his apartment, to do something worthwhile, to see Illya. Gaby is on a mission in Triest, but Illya will be in their shared office and maybe he'll be able to corner him and talk to him about what happened on Friday. 

He needs to go, but he can’t leave the poor bird lying bare like that, so he takes a cloth napkin from the draw and gently covers the body. “I’ll take care of you when I come home,” he murmurs, knowing the words are useless for so many reasons but still needing to say them. Tears burn in his eyes and blur his vision, but he’s able to blink them back and swallow the heat in his throat.

He decides to forego his morning coffee; he couldn’t bear to sit and drink it in the same room as his failed attempt at healing. It seems he’s only good at breaking after all. “I need to clean everything up,” he realizes out loud. “Fuck.” Napoleon sighs and tips his head back against the threat of returning tears.

For a few seconds he stays like that, then leaves the kitchen to put on his shoes and his coat. With that, and one last look at the sad little bird, he’s out.

**――**

Of course he shouldn’t have expected to be in office on time, and of course he should’ve expected a traffic jam, but he’d hoped for at least one small blessing in return for his miserable morning. “Thanks for nothing,” he mutters to anyone who might be listening.

By the time he’s finally in the building, he’s about two hours late. At least the reception desk is empty, so no one will report him to Waverly immediately. Maybe he’ll be able to dodge the confrontation until he’s feeling less miserable. He heads straight for the elevator, instead of dropping by Waverly’s office to greet his superior like he usually does. 

“Ah, Solo! Excellent!”

“Just my luck,” Napoleon mumbles and tries to put on a smile, which is harder than expected. 

His fingers go to his signet ring and find nothing but bare skin. He frowns and looks down, in search of something that definitely isn’t where it’s supposed to be. 

Nausea overcomes him and he feels himself starting to shake. Not this, too. Not his last barrier. Not―

“A bit late today, are we?” Waverly chirps, his usual cheerful self. 

Napoleon opens his mouth to reply, but realizes he has no idea what to say. “It won't happen again,” he says finally, not prepared to apologise for something that wasn’t his fault.

“I’m sure I don't need to talk about UNCLE’s regulations or standards.” Waverly looks at him directly now. “I consider your team the best, so I expect only the best behaviour, do you understand?”

Napoleon goes rigid and straight-backed in a recall of his army days. “Yes, sir,” he replies in the accompanying crisp tone, and hopes he doesn’t sound too stiff. 

“Good. Now that that's out of the way, what on earth happened to you?” Waverly seems honestly concerned, but Napoleon can't be bothered to give him any details. “Rough morning,” he says shortly with another tight smile, and thankfully Waverly accepts it.

Napoleon tries not to dwell on it - Friday, the weekend, this morning, all of it - but it’s hard. He should've just stayed in bed, hoping for Illya to return.

That would almost surely have been a waste of time, though, since Illya doesn’t seem to care that much. There had been only one phone call the entire weekend and it had been very brief, the silence awkward and stilted while Illya searched for words.

 _“You will get the tickets?”_

_“I'm working on it.”_

_“Good.”_

From that moment on Napoleon had known whatever Illya's intention had been on Friday, it had merely been to satisfy his curiosity. If he hadn't been occupied with caring for his fallen friend - which, honestly, he might as well just not have bothered for all the good he did - he would've moped the entire weekend. It was always bad to fall for a colleague, especially when the feelings weren’t returned even in part.

Whatever idiotic part of his brain had decided to read so much into Illya introducing Napoleon to his mother as his _partner_ rather than his _colleague_ needed to be burned at stake. The worst of it was that it had been so easy to believe that Illya cared for him, too - his blushes when Napoleon complimented him, his laughter at Napoleon's terrible jokes, his soft, fleeting touches, his brilliant and undimming smile. 

Napoleon nods at Waverly and tries not to hurry too obviously to the door of his and Illya’s shared office. He sighs, shoulders drooping, and steps in. Finally, he can stop pretending. Finally he’s somewhere safe.

“Good morning,” he says, feeling his spirits lift a little at the sight of Illya glaring down at a stack of paper through a pair of reading glasses.

Illya takes off the glasses, toying with them but not putting them down. “It is hardly morning anymore.“

“It isn’t noon yet, is it?” Napoleon hangs up his coat and tries not to appear self-conscious about what he’s wearing.

“No.”

“Well then it's still the morning.”

Illya huffs and finally looks at him. “What happened to you?” he asks bluntly, eyebrows shooting up.

“What do you mean?” Napoleon picks a bit of imaginary fuzz off of his shoulder. 

“Your whole―” Illya makes a vague gesture. “Outfit,” he says, cringing at the word. 

“I overslept,” Napoleon answers, slightly annoyed.

He’d seen himself in the mirror, seen that he was a bit of a mess, but he hadn't looked _that_ bad.

“Long night?” Illya wants to know, a strange tone in his voice. 

“Not on a Sunday,” Napoleon snaps, “and not in a while.”

Illya lifts his hands in apology, a gesture he’d picked up from Gaby. Usually, it’s quite endearing, but today it just annoys him. He’s not a startled horse. “I was just asking,” he says.

“I know.” Napoleon sits down at his desk and frowns at the paperwork scattered across it. 

He could've sworn he'd been nearly done with it when he left for the weekend. The mess on his table looks like another two days of office work and he wants to drop his head against the wood in frustration. 

He needs to get out, to get away. Why hadn't Waverly let him join Gaby?

“Are you alright?” Illya asks absently, reading glasses back into place as he returns to his own work.

Napoleon very carefully refrains from gritting his teeth. “Fine” he lies.

This is one of his worst Mondays ever, counting the day he found out his mother had thrown away all of his childhood toys. Illya’s concern might be well-intentioned, but it isn't doing him any good - it only reminds him of everything that’s gone wrong, all the ways in which he _isn’t_ fine, and how close he is to crying. 

They work in tense silence for the next hours, both of them skipping lunch because they dislike leaving work unfinished. Everything is going well until Napoleon finds the mission report of their first failed assignment. Their target had killed the kid they should've been protecting. He feels nauseous all over again, and the paper blurs abruptly as his eyes start to sting with unshed tears. He wipes them away quickly, angrily. He doesn’t need the reminder of another failure, not now.

It’s then that Illya catches Napoleon's attention by tapping his fingers against his desk. 

“Did you get the tickets?” he asks. 

“Tickets?” Napoleon had been so caught up in forcing unwanted memories back into his head that it takes him some time to come back to reality.

“Gaby's birthday present,” Illya reminds him. “The ones I've been reminding you to get since forever?” 

“You only asked me last week,” Napoleon defends himself.

Somehow it seems they only ever fight over details.

“It doesn’t matter.” Illya waves him off. “Did you get them?”

Napoleon rubs his face and gives in to the inevitable. “No,” he admits. “I didn't get them.“

Illya slams his hand onto the table. “I asked you for _one thing_ , how hard can that be?”

 _Very hard, apparently_ , Napoleon thinks acidly. Out loud, he says, “I'm sorry, all right? I forgot. I had―”

“Something else to do this weekend?” Illya interrupts coldly. “I’m sure it wasn’t so important that you _couldn’t_ get the tickets, so I assume you simply didn’t want to.” He looks away, over Napoleon’s shoulder. “You should be more responsible,” he says tightly. “Not so selfish.”

Napoleon stares at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“That's what you think?” Napoleon wants to know, heart clenching painfully in his chest. 

He’s had worse from Illya before, much worse, but he’s always been able to shake it off because he knew it wasn’t true. Now, though, it _is_ true, and Illya is _right_. He _is_ selfish, he _is_ irresponsible, he _does_ ruin everything, and everything he tries to nurture _dies._

“Am I wrong?”

Napoleon opens his mouth, but only a gust of air comes out. He presses his lips together and shakes his head. 

No, he’s not going to cry. He clenches his jaw. Absolutely not. He bites the inside of his cheek. Not because Illya doesn’t give a damn about him. He pulls in a long breath through his nose and tries to keep it from shaking. Not because he’s only worth talking to when he’s needed for something. 

He blinks, hard, but it doesn’t help: to his mortification, a tear slips free and runs down his cheek. He wipes it away furiously, but more follow. _Anger,_ he tries to tell himself. _Be angry, not upset. Be offended, not hurt. Be furious, not helpless._ But the anger isn’t there. There’s nothing there.

How useless he is. How pathetic, how miserable. Unable to do anything right, unable to control his own goddamn emotions. It would be for the best if he just left. 

His chest tightens painfully and he can’t breathe properly, but he tries to stay calm, tries to keep quiet, tries to find something else, anything else to think about to get it to _stop_ , but in the end he fails at that as well. 

A single hitching breath escapes, too wet to pass off as a cough, and the dam breaks. He should have left well before now, excused himself to the restroom and found a little privacy, but it’s too late for that. Sitting back in his chair, face tipped skywards, tears streaming down his cheeks, trying to contain the hiccuping, choking breaths that fight their way out of him, all he can do is close his eyes and pretend that Illya isn’t watching him, isn’t disgusted by him, isn’t sneering and rolling his eyes and opening his mouth to deliver one last cutting remark―

A gentle touch lands on his shoulder. “Cowboy?” Illya asks softly, uncertain.

“Don't call me that,” he forces out. _Not when you don’t mean it._

 _Cowboy_ is a friend’s name, an endearment, a history that’s over, a future that isn’t there. The name means that Illya cares about him, which simply isn’t true. He heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.

“But―” Illya starts.

“It's fine, Illya. You’ve made your opinion of me clear enough - there’s no need to start caring now.” Why won't he just leave him alone? 

Illya's hand buries itself into the soft fabric of his sweater and tugs at it. He opens his eyes to protest the frankly unfair treatment of perfectly good cashmere, tears be damned, but when he meets Illya's gaze, the words die on his lips. The look on his face is full of unspoken emotion and his eyes are wide and bloodshot as if he's close to crying, too. 

“Of course I care about you,” he says, and tugs at his sweater again. “How could I not? You frustrate me sometimes, but you’re still― you take in hurt animals, and―”

Napoleon stops him before he has to hear another lie. “It’s dead, Illya,” he says shakily. “It didn't make it.” _So stop talking about things you don’t understand_ , he wants to add, but it seems overly cruel. 

Illya, for once, is stunned into silence. There's no witty remark, just quiet disbelief and an indecipherable expression on his face. It takes Napoleon a few moments to recognize it as guilt. 

“I am so sorry, I should not have―” 

“It's okay, you didn't know.” Napoleon sniffs and starts looking for a tissue. 

Illya holds out a handkerchief, which Napoleon eyes somewhat dubiously. “It’s clean,” Illya snaps, exasperated, but his cheeks are reddening. “I wouldn’t give you a used one.”

It’s not like he can really afford to be picky right now, so Napoleon takes it and gives his face a cursory wipe.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did.” Illya looks to the side, as if ashamed, but his hand stays on Napoleon's shoulder. “I did not mean it. I am getting better with the outbursts, but sometimes―” 

Napoleon makes a pathetic sound as a stray sob catches him by surprise.

Illya starts rubbing his shoulder, finding the tension and soothing it out. “I was just...annoyed. I have been so excited about taking Gaby to the ballet, and I was afraid that we would not be able to. You know how much she enjoys dancing, and I think it would mean a lot to her if we invited her.” 

“We?” Napoleon repeats drily. 

“Yes, of course,” Illya says, as though it were obvious. “I would not want to go with her alone. It would be wrong to not include you.”

The hand disappears from his shoulder but reappears on his head, long fingers combing through Napoleon's hair. “I see,” Illya says quietly. “You thought you were not wanted.” 

Napoleon leans back against him in quiet defeat. Said like that, it sounds like such a childish thing to get upset about. Of course he’s not wanted - he’s spent the better part of his _life_ not being wanted, so there’s no reason to start taking it personally now. He is, though, as much as he hates to admit it. He is very much taking it personally, 

“You―” Illya starts. “I―” He stops again, and clears his throat. 

His hand settles on the back of Napoleon's neck, solid and warm. “I would miss you,” he admits, and a thrill shivers down Napoleon's spine. 

Illya's hand draws away, but he doesn’t have time to be disappointed. “Can I….?” Illya trails off awkwardly, but opens his arms just slightly in an unmistakable request.

Napoleon chuckles, a little wet, a little shaky. “Your hands were all over me a second ago and _now_ you're asking for consent?”

“Shut up.” 

He doesn't need to see his face to know that Illya is edging on annoyed; he can hear it in his voice, and decides to take pity on him. “Yes,” he says simply. “Please.”

Illya sinks onto his knees to gather Napoleon into his arms, and Napoleon leans forward to rest his head against Illya’s shoulder, to feel the warmth of him, to feel safe and protected. The embrace is solid and strong, and it’s everything he needs. He’d missed having Illya this close, missed the way touch sufficed where words would fail.

Illya seems to have other ideas, though, and pushes him back just enough to settle himself on Napoleon’s lap, facing him on the chair that groans ominously at their combined weights. 

Napoleon blinks. “This isn’t what we agreed on,” he says, only half teasing. The other half is just surprised. 

“Oh, did you want me to go?” Illya tries to sound aloof, but his eyes are too fond and his hands are too gentle where they rest against Napoleon’s cheeks. 

“I didn’t say that,” Napoleon breathes, and Illya smirks. Then he drops his forehead against Napoleon’s shoulder, a mirror of their earlier arrangement, and brushes his nose against the side of his neck.

Napoleon can't help but wrap his arms around Illya. “You know you’re an idiot, right?” he says and presses a kiss to Illya's cheek when he lifts his head. 

“You are an idiot too,” Illya replies, but leaves the sentence unfinished, as if he wants to add something but isn't sure what. 

“So?” Napoleon prompts.

Illya closes his eyes like he can’t believe what he’s about to say and drops his head again with a sigh. “So we match,” comes the muffled reply, and Napoleon can't help but agree.

**Author's Note:**

> I've received this prompt ages ago and I feel terrible for not writing it sooner, but here it is finally!! I wasn't sure where to start and what to write, because Napoleon doesn't strike me as someone who gets upset easily. So dear anon, I hope you liked what I wrote. If not, please feel free to barge into my inbox and to yell at me. 
> 
> A lot of thanks and a load of hugs to my lovely beta [Anna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes). You're super patient when it comes to me and my confusion, so I really appreciate your help and your neverending willingless to read through my stuff. 
> 
> And last but not least: thank all of you for reading the fic. I hope you liked it! ~~I'd love to get some feedback, even if it's just incoherrent yelling, so feel free to do just that.~~ I'm not taking prompts atm, because I still have a lot of fics to write, but if you want to talk about headcanons etc., you can always shoot me an ask :)
> 
> That's it, have a good one!


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